


She Will Move Mountains

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [6]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode: s09e08 The Zygon Inversion, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7758481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara had resolved, a long time ago, to never show weakness in front of the Doctor. Come hell or high water, come death or destruction, she was cool and composed, unflinching in the face of danger. He needed her to be strong, so strong she would be: the Impossible Girl, ready to make the ultimate sacrifice without so much as a whimper of complaint.</p>
<p>Except this time, when her body betrays her. Except this time, when her legs give way and she hits the floor of the console room. </p>
<p>In the wake of being captured by Bonnie, for the first time Clara's mask begins to slip...</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Will Move Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> The name comes from the quote "let her sleep, for when she wakes, she will move mountains."

Clara was exhausted. She had been trying to pretend that she wasn’t, but fatigue struck her to the very core, rendering her dimly aware that at any moment her legs may give way and she would slide to the floor, her eyes closing as sleep consumed her at last. She could sense the Doctor’s eyes on her in the semi-darkness of the console room, and she could feel the slight flush in her cheeks from his words, but other than that she was overwhelmed by bone-tiredness, it sapping her remaining energy as she leant against the console, allowing her hair to fall over her face to disguise the weariness in her eyes. 

“Clara?” the Doctor’s voice sounded distant and far-away, his voice soft and pleasant, and she closed her eyes for a moment, allowing a small, sleepy smile to play over her lips at the warm familiarity of his accent. “Clara?” he repeated more loudly, and she felt his hand close over her own, jolting her from her reverie and pulling her back to the present, away from the precipice of sleep. She opened her eyes and focused on him with some difficulty, swaying slightly with the effort of offering him her full attention. 

“Mm?” she managed after a moment, when her eyes had focused on him more definitively, forcing back a yawn as she contemplated his expression. She knew she needed to allay his worries, so she attempted to sound more like herself as she added: “Yeah?” 

“Are you OK?” he asked, his brow crinkling as he frowned at her with concern, looking her up and down in an attempt to gauge her physical state. “You look like hell.” 

“Thanks,” she said drily, attempting to take half a step away but finding her legs unresponsive, her brain too weary to recall the basic principles of motion. She looked down at them in consternation and then back up at the Doctor, her eyebrows knitting together as she pondered the issue at hand, wondering what it would take to assuage the Time Lord’s concern. 

“I didn’t…” he sighed, looking down at the floor of the console room and shuffling his feet awkwardly, knowing his appraisal had fallen flat and desperately attempting to make amends. “You look tired.” 

“How would you know?” she asked wearily, attempting to jest with him but her tone falling somewhat short as her vocal chords lagged behind her brain. “ _You_ don’t sleep.” 

“Of course I sleep!” he protested, holding his hands up in a deliberately-choreographed gesture of placation. “Sometimes. Occasionally. Just not as much as you. Clara, please, I have…” 

“A duty of care, I _know_. But I don’t need it, because I’m fine, so just don’t worry about me. _Please_.”

“Clara…” 

With a sense of mild irritation at his misplaced concern, she remembered abruptly how her legs worked and took a tentative step away from him before crashing to the floor, her body unused to walking and talking again after spending days trapped in a Zygon pod. She swore under her breath and reflexively curled onto her side on the cool metal, barely noticing the Doctor’s worried cry or his immediate presence at her side, one of his hands resting lightly on her neck to check her pulse as she allowed her eyes to flutter closed at last. 

“Clara?” he murmured softly, brushing her hair back so he could see her face. “Clara, can you hear me? Are you alright? …OK, stupid question, of course you’re not alright… but you can’t sleep here, it’s not comfortable, can you get up? Hey?” 

She lay passively beside him, feeling sleep beckon to her alluringly, her breathing slowing as his words faded away and she felt unconsciousness claim her, her mind soothed into oblivion by the quiet hum of the engines. 

“Well,” the Doctor said with a sense of resignation, looking down at her uncertainly, loathe to move her but equally aware that she could not and would not be comfortable on the floor of his TARDIS. He supposed he _should_ move her, so he crouched and pulled her carefully into his arms, standing up with minimal verbal complaints and instead looking down at her as she slept peacefully. “My Clara…” he murmured softly, more to reassure himself than her, as he walked with her to her bedroom, each step exactly measured to prevent her from waking, and he silently thanked his ship for moving her bedroom to beside the console room as he crossed the threshold and lay her down on the bed. He was dimly aware – from past experience – that he couldn’t just leave her lying there on top of the covers fully clothed, so he removed her shoes and socks with the utmost care and considered attempting to take off her coat, before dismissing the idea as too disruptive and opting instead to leave her be.

Instead he pulled a blanket over her and tucked it carefully around her shoulders, leaning down and pressing a feather-light kiss to her brow in a surprisingly tender gesture, before resting his forehead against her own and listening to her slow, even breaths, reassured by their regularity. Her eyelids flickered and for a moment he feared he may have woken her, but she only smiled slightly in her sleep, a look of serenity on her face as she lay among the comfortable cushions and bright covers of her bed, hair splayed out over the pillow in a chestnut fan. Moving away from her infinitesimally, he turned to leave but instead felt Clara’s hand dart out of the blanket and grab at his wrist, small and insistent, vice-like in its grip. 

“Stay,” she mumbled, still half-caught in a dream but certain in this one demand. “Please.” 

“But…” he began to protest, but his hearts were not in it, instead loudly demanding he stay by his companion’s side, and thus he capitulated to her will with little persuasion, smiling slightly as he assured her: “OK, I’ll stay.” 

Content, she smiled and relinquished her grasp on his wrist, and he settled himself into the chair next to her bed, his chin propped on his hand as he watched her sleep, recovering – he knew – from her ordeal. He would remain here for as long as she deemed his presence necessary, perhaps longer still, watching over her to ensure that her rest was uninterrupted by external forces: that she was able to sleep and to heal, to gather her strength for the days ahead. He thus vowed silently that he would be her protector for the next few hours, that he would not sleep, that he would not succumb to the exhaustion that dogged him incessantly, but the next thing he was aware of was jolting rudely awake, Clara’s shouts filling his ears. 

“Clara?” he asked, immediately alert and on guard, moving to the side of the bed and into her line of vision carefully so as not to startle her as she sat up, her eyes staring dead ahead as her breath came in sharp gasps, her chest heaving as she struggled with the blankets that were twisted around her. “Clara, what happened?” 

“Bad… dream…” she panted, tears filling her eyes as she looked up at him, holding her hand out in search of physical reassurance, visibly trembling as she tried to cast away the vestiges of the nightmare. He slipped his hand into hers and squeezed gently, perching on the edge of the bed as she took long, slow breaths to try and slow her heartrate back to normal, her breathing slowing only fractionally as she gripped his hand for support. “I… had a… bad dream.” 

“It’s OK,” he soothed, shifting slightly and beginning to trace soothing circles on her palm with his fingertip. “It’s alright, it wasn’t real, Clara.” 

“But it… it felt real,” she said softly, sitting up and wrapping her free arm around her knees, hugging them against her chest tightly to try and stop herself from shaking, looking up at him with wide eyes that implored him to understand. “I… it felt so real, I just… it scared me, I couldn’t…”

“What happened?” he asked, scooching a little closer to her without letting go of her hand. “Maybe I can help?” 

“I… I don’t know,” she confessed, closing her eyes tight against the flood of raw images that her subconscious had thrown at her, feeling the panic rising in her chest again. “I was just… it was… I was back in that pod, and there was no air… I…” 

“Ah,” he breathed, finally closing the gap between them and putting his arm around his terrified companion, feeling her trembling against his chest as he stroked her hair in a way he had long since learned she liked. “Clara, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?” she asked, looking up at him with a confused expression, unsure of the reason for his apology, not yet understanding that behind his words lay certainty that he was at fault for her suffering. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

“The dream, no. The pod…” he sighed, feeling guilt beginning to consume him: guilt that she was harmed, guilt that she was exhausted by her ordeal. He turned his face away from her a little as he continued, knowing her fury would be provoked by his words but needing to say them anyway, needing to make her understand. “I should never have let you get involved with any of this.” 

“Any of what?” she asked, swiping the back of her hand over her eyes to check for tears and then realising she was still wearing her coat, her mind latching on to this piece of information as a distraction from a conversation that neither of them wanted to have. “Why am I in bed in my clothes?” 

“Because you basically passed out in the console room,” the Doctor explained, sighing softly as he recalled the way she had crumpled forwards almost lifelessly, her sudden passivity terrifying him. “So I brought you in here, because you’re exhausted, and it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have let you get involved with all this UNIT business, I shouldn’t have put you at risk…” 

“Hey!” she argued, somewhat unwilling to engage in this argument but still managing a decent amount of indignation, refusing to allow him to blame himself for what had happened. “If it hadn’t been for me being involved with UNIT, you might’ve died on Skaro.” 

“I know, but-” 

“And what about… you know…” she met his gaze, knowing she didn’t need to say the words. She didn’t need to remind him of her influence in saving Gallifrey, in saving his people, on that fateful day what felt like lifetimes ago. From the way he looked back at her, she could see he knew that she was right, and his shoulders sagged slightly as he accepted this fact. 

“Clara, I mean…” he sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose, deciding to try a more specific approach to help her understand. “I mean with the Zygons.” 

“Oh,” she said, her brain still not quite functional post-nightmare, and she cocked her head to one side, contemplating him calmly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she asked: “What about them?” 

“Clara,” he stated, laying the facts before her as plainly as he could, determined to make her understand his cause for concern. “This is not the first time they’ve taken you-” 

“I don’t care!” 

“-and it’s not the first time they’ve tried to get information out of you-” 

“Yeah, and _failed_.”

“ _Clara_ ,” he interjected sternly, his gaze flickering over the thin scar at her hairline, left by the barrel of a human weapon held by a non-human torturer. His eyes filled with guilt as he bit his lip, looking down at her and feeling his hearts clench painfully as he recalled _that_ day and its terrible aftermath. “I have a duty of care.” 

“You and your bloody _duty of care_ ,” she snapped suddenly, feeling her temper beginning to fray at his failure – or worse, refusal – to understand that he was not directly culpable for her current exhaustion or for her increasing penchant for danger. “I don’t need you to look after me like this, I don’t need you to fuss over me like I’m a child!” 

“Clara, it’s getting worse each time,” he said quietly, refusing to rise to her anger, his voice strained with the effort of making her understand. “This is what, the eighth time they’ve taken you?” 

“Ninth,” she said matter-of-factly with a small shrug, as though they were discussing the weather rather than situations of torture, during which the planet’s fate had rested on her ability to – for once – keep her mouth shut. “Then Kate got captured the other six.” 

“Well,” he said, with a small frown, surprised he had miscounted, cursing himself for his inattention to detail where it came to his companion. It was his duty to pay attention to her and thus keep her safe, his duty to make sure that she befell no harm. “You’ve never been this tired before. Bonnie was much stronger than the others.” 

“Not really,” Clara parried immediately, unwilling to admit her own potential weakness, unwilling to offer him any more excuse to use his favourite “duty of care” line. “I’ve just been…” 

“ _Clara_ ,” he said forcefully, his tone taking them both by surprise as he let his anger partially consume him, frustrated as he was by her refusal to acquiesce to his apologies and acceptance of culpability. “Dammit, Clara, we shouldn’t have to be _having_ this conversation. You shouldn’t have been taken by them, you shouldn’t have been in that position… it’s my fault.” 

“What?” she asked him, her anger blazing at the insinuation of his words, at the implied meaning behind what he said. “So, if it’s your fault when things like this happen then what, I just shouldn’t travel with you? I should just stay at home out of danger?” 

“No!” he said immediately, then backtracked with some guilt: “Yes… maybe… I don’t know! If it meant you could be safe… if it meant I wasn’t bringing you harm…” 

“You didn’t cause this, Doctor,” Clara argued fiercely, twisting around to glare up at him determinedly. “You didn’t force me to get involved with any of this, so don’t you dare try and blame yourself, or treat me like I’m made of glass.”

“Clara,” his voice broke with emotion at the thought that he had nearly lost her for good this time, as he recalled those torturous few minutes during which he had believed she was dead and gone. “Clara, I…” 

“Doctor,” she said firmly, resting her head on his shoulder again as she spoke, her tone more gentle as she continued: “I can look after myself. I promise. This isn’t your fault; this isn’t anyone’s fault. I chose to get involved with you and UNIT, I chose to take that risk, not that any of that matters, because what counts is that we stopped them.” 

There was a long pause as he processed her words, knowing he needed to accept her autonomy and her freedom to make decisions, yet still knowing that he had a responsibility to her that was driven by his refusal to see her suffer. 

“You don’t understand,” he tried to explain, his voice slightly strangled as he tried to keep tears from choking his words completely. “You don’t understand how hard it was to watch creatures use your face and your voice. Or to see them hurt you… in any way…” 

An image flashed through his mind of Clara on her knees on a cold concrete floor, blood trickling down her face but a grin splitting her features as she looked up at him, exhausted but triumphant at having defied her captors and refused to acquiesce to their demands. Each time there was an uprising by the Zygons, there was a new level of invasiveness involved in their plans to get to him, a new form of torture that Clara suffered, defiant and stoic to the last but still – underneath it all, he knew – deeply afraid of what they might do to her. Bonnie had been the first to use his companion’s voice and face to trick him, whilst others had simply used her likeness to gain entry to the Black Archive, although Bonnie’s deception had been near-perfect in its execution: in capturing Clara, stealing her memories and deceiving those around her, she had fooled most of UNIT and used that to her advantage. She had been cunning, and he feared what the future would hold for Clara should further revolutionary factions mobilise; feared what they might do to try and succeed where others had failed. He could barely contemplate the idea that some of them may make serious attempts on Clara’s life. 

“Doctor,” she said gently, bringing him back to the present as she nuzzled into his side affectionately, her hand patting his arm somewhat condescendingly. “I can handle it, I promise. I’m fine, really.”

“Goddammit, Clara,” he cursed, fighting to keep his temper in check at her continuing insistences that she was coping when he knew the truth. “Do you think I don’t see it? Do you think I’m that blind to you?” 

“See what?” 

He affixed her with a long look, weighing up the best way to phrase his concerns, wondering how to word things so as to avoid causing offence or distress to her, and deciding to attempt to be delicate, a technique he was still working on – admittedly with Clara’s help. There was no way to ask for her help now though, that much he knew, not when _she_ was the one who needed _his._  

“Clara,” he began uncertainly, the words heavy in his chest as he fought to elucidate his observations. “I mean… since Danny… you’ve been… I’ve seen your notes on your calendar. Therapy, 3:30, every Thursday, regular as clockwork. And…” he flushed a little in embarrassment at the prospect of confessing something so intimate, hoping that she would not make assumptions surrounding his behaviours. “Well, now you sleep here more… some nights I hear you crying.” 

“Oh,” she said softly, looking somewhat embarrassed at this revelation, at the TARDIS’s betrayal of trust in highlighting her emotions to him, yet equally feeling a small sense of relief that she no longer needed to lie to him about what she was going through. “I didn’t… oh.”

“Yeah,” he said awkwardly, looking away for a moment to allow her some privacy in which to wipe her eyes. “I just… I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret, I don’t want you to take any risks and end up…” 

“Oh,” she said again, a little more confidently, regaining some of her composure and deciding to interject before he bungled the moment too completely. “Well don’t worry…” 

“I _do_ worry,” he insisted, contrary to her wishes for silence, continuing in a rush: “A lot. Because I looked online at all your symptoms and…” 

“You did _what_?! My _what_?!”

“Urm, so that was a thing… I might have… done? And it said…” 

“Doctor,” Clara said tiredly, resigning herself to confessing the truth she had worked for so long to hide from him, not out of shame but simply because the two spheres did not intersect: her mental health was the concern of her doctor, not her _Doctor_. “Doctor, look, I could have saved you the effort. It’s… depression, I know that. But I’m getting better, I’m _doing_ better, Zygons or no Zygons. Being with you, seeing the universe… it helps me, it shows me that I’m not just a mess of hormones and chemicals, so I don’t need you treating me differently because of it, I need you to be normal, _please._ ” 

“But-” 

“If you say ‘I have a duty of care’ again, I will smack you so hard you’ll regenerate.” Her glare assured him that she was serious, and the Doctor sighed. 

He slumped beside her, defeated by her words and her will. “Clara,” he said after a few minutes of silence, having gathered his thoughts enough to appear reasonably eloquent. “Look, I’m not gonna say it, so don’t look at me like that… just know I’ll be here for you, OK? You can talk to me about these things, you don’t have to be silent about how you feel.” 

“No I can’t,” she said quietly, snuggling further into his shoulder as she spoke so that he wouldn’t see the redness in her cheeks or the tears in her eyes. “You need me to be brave. _You’re_ brave.” 

“No one can be brave all the time, Clara,” he told her softly, wondering how open he could be without destroying her confidence in him, and opting for total honesty, pressing a kiss to her hair before explaining: “Not even me. Sometimes, admitting you’re scared is the bravest thing of all. Believe me, I’d know.” 

“Mm,” she murmured, somewhat embarrassed and clearly wanting to change the subject as she added playfully: “I’m not scared of Zygons though.” 

“Course not,” he replied as lightly as he could manage, pressing a feather-light kiss to her hair. “Like you’re totally not falling asleep on my shoulder whilst we have this conversation, hm?” 

“I’m _totally_ not. Complaints?” she said with a light yawn, snuggling closer to him and half-wishing he was wearing the velvet jacket she so adored, deciding that his hoodie was a worthy alternative and smiling properly for the first time in hours. 

“None whatsoever,” he admitted with a small smile, wrapping his arm around her more securely. “But you might want to…”

There was a tiny change in her breathing, and he looked down at his sleeping companion, feeling a surge of affection for her in that instant: his tiny, fragile human companion, the one he would do anything to protect.

“My Clara,” he whispered, readjusting the blanket around her and laying them both down more comfortably, her head resting against his chest as she slumbered. “Rest now.”


End file.
